Martin remembered a comparable frenzy in Emory’s past: the period when Legs Diamond had been an Albany celebrity; the most outlandishly sensational running news event in the modern history of Albany. Emory, who whipped his slaves like a galleymaster to ferret out every inch of copy the story could bear, finally triumphed prophetically the night Diamond was acquitted of a kidnapping charge. He oversaw personally the hand-setting of the great fist-sized wooden type he saved for major natural catastrophes, armistices, and The Chief’s sneezes: DIAMOND SLAIN BY ENEMIES; for the rumor had been abroad in Albany for twelve hours, and was indeed current the length of the Eastern seaboard and as far west as Chicago, that Diamond was, on that particular night, truly a terminal target. Emory had the headline made up a full six hours before Diamond was actually shot dead in his bed on Dove Street by a pair of gunmen. It was then used on the extra that sold twenty thousand copies.
Martin had already calculated that the extra that never was on Charlie Boy would have sold even more. When the news on Charlie did break, the coverage would dwarf the Diamond story. There had never been anything like this in Albany’s modern history, and Martin knew Emory Jones also knew this, knew it deeply, far down into the viscous, ink-stinking marrow of his editorial bones.
“Did you undo that goddamn pledge?” were Emory’s first words.
“No.”
“Then get at it.”
“It’s not possible, Emory.”
Emory moved his cigar in and out of his mouth, an unnerved thumbsucker. He sat down in the wobbly chair alongside Martin’s decrepit desk, blew smoke at Martin, and inquired: “Why in the sacred name of Jesus is it not possible?”
“Because I don’t think you’re interested in being the editor who put the bullet in Charlie McCall’s brain. Or are you?”
Martin’s explanation of the sequence of events forced Emory to recapitulate the future as he had known it all morning. Martin let him stew and then told him: “Emory, you’re the man in charge of this silence, whether you like it or not. You’re the man with the reputation, the journalistic clout. You’re the only one in town who can convince the wire services and whoever’s left among the boys up in the Capitol press room to keep their wires closed on this one for a little while. They’ll do it if you set the ground rules, make yourself chairman of the big secret. Maybe set a time limit. Two days? Four? A week?”
“A week? Are you serious?”
“All right, two days. They’ll do it as a gentleman’s agreement if you explain the dread behind it. You’ll be a genuine hero to the McCalls if you do, and that’s worth money to this newspaper, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Keep your venal sarcasm under your dirty vest.”
“It’s not sarcasm. It’s cynical humanism.”
“Well, hell, I don’t want to murder anybody. At least not Charlie.”
“I knew you’d get the picture.”
“But what will I tell them?”
“Emory, I have faith that you’ll think of something. We both know you’ve got more bullshit than the cattle states.”
“Maybe Dunsbach’s already put it out.”
“Maybe. Then your problem is solved, even if his isn’t. But I doubt it. I was persuasive.”
“Then you do it.”
“I can’t do it, Emory. I’m just a piss-ant columnist, not an omnipotent editor.”
“Willard Maney will go along. He’s an Albanian.”
“And a McCall fancier.”
“And Foley at the News.”
“Another kinsman.”
“But those bastards up at the Capitol. I don’t know them. You know them. You play cards with them when you’re supposed to be out getting under the news.”
“Use my name up there if you like.”
“The wire services can pass the word up there.”
“Exactly. And the boys will very likely follow suit. Despite what you think, they’re a decent bunch. And Emory, it’s really not your responsibility anyway what out-of-town writers do. Then it’s on them, and on their children. And what the hell, even an editor’s advisory like Dunsbach’s talking about wouldn’t be all that bad if they made it clear to their clients that Charlie’s life was at stake. Which is now a rotten fact.”
“That poor bastard. What he must be going through.”
“He may already be gone.”
Martin looked at the clippings on his desk, Charlie’s face staring up from one as he attends a Knights of Columbus party. On almost any given evening when Charlie walked into the K. of C, somebody would make a fool of himself over this gentle young man who might carry a word of good will back to his father and uncles. Life preservation. Money in the bank for those who make their allegiance known. Shake the hand of the boy who shakes the hand of the men who shake the tree from which falls the fruit of our days. Poor sucker, tied to a bed someplace. Will I live through the night? Will they shoot me in the morning? Where is my powerful father? Where are my powerful uncles? Who will save the son when the father is gone? Pray to Jesus, but where is Jesus? Jesus, Charlie, sits at my desk in the person of an equivocating Welsh rarebit who doesn’t understand sons because he never had any. But he understands money and news and power and decency and perhaps such things as these will help save the boy we remember. We are now scheming in our own way, Charlie, to keep you in our life.
“I was putting together a backgrounder on Charlie,” Martin said, breaking the silence. “Is there anything else you want me to do? There’s also that A.L.P business today.”
“The hell with that stuff now.”
“It’s pretty big, you know. Quite a show of power.”
“They’re a handful of reds, that’s all.”
“They’re not reds, Emory. Don’t you fall for that malarkey Probably only two or three are really Communists.”
“They’re pinks, then. What’s the difference?”
“We can discuss this fine point of color another time, but it’s definitely worth a story, and good play, no matter what else happens along with it.”
“Whatever happens I don’t want you on it. You stay on Charlie.”
“Doing what?”
“Find the kidnappers, what the hell else?”
“Find the kidnappers.”
“Check around Broadway. That’s where they hang out.”
“Check around Broadway.”
“And don’t get lost. Call me every hour. Every half-hour.”
“Every half-hour.”
And then Emory Jones, sucking on his stogie, rumbled off and slammed the door of his cubicle, then sat at his desk and picked up the phone to begin spreading the blanket of silence over a story whose magnitude punified even his own recurring glory dreams of news at its colossally tragic best.
Four
“Please don’t talk about me when I’m gone,” Mildred Bailey was singing over WHN, with the Paul Whiteman band behind her. And Billy Phelan, writing horses in his, or, more precisely, his sister’s and brother-in-law’s living room, wearing pants, socks, and undershirt, no shoes or belt, remembered the time she came to town with Whiteman. Played the Palace. She always sang like a bird to Billy’s ear, a hell of a voice. Hell of a voice. Sounded gorgeous. And then she showed up fat. Dumpy tub of lard. Whiteman too, the tub. Billy remembered the night he played games with Whiteman at the crap table in Saratoga. He was dealing at Riley’s Lake House, youngest dealer in town that season, 1931, and of course, of course he knew who Whiteman was when the big boy rolled the dice and lost the last of his wad.
“Let’s have five hundred in chips, sonny, and an I.O.U.,” Whiteman said.
“Who the hell are you? I don’t know you,” Billy said. Sonny me, you son of a bitch. Hubie Maloy, the crazy, was at the table that night. From Albany. Always carried a gun. But Billy liked him. Hubie smiled when Whiteman called Billy sonny. Big-timer, throwing his weight around, that big gut, and figures everybody on earth knows his mustache.